


Cock Handling

by FiaMac



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Crack, Inception birds, M/M, Peabrain the Peacock, Prompt Fic, a whooshie peacock, angst therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Eames on a subway. With a peacock.





	Cock Handling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts), [kate_the_reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/gifts), [IAmANonnieMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/gifts), [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts), [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> Thanks to youcantsaymylastname for inspiring, to kate_the_reader for enabling, to IAmaNonnieMouse for sympathizing, to swtalmnd for emojiing, to Aja for whooshing, and to a whole bunch of others for supporting.
> 
> No peacocks were harmed in the making of this story. Everything else is just a flesh wound.

Arthur is the king of _don’t give two fucks_. Always has been since his precocious toddler-self shoved mashed banana up the babysitter’s nose.

In all fairness, she provoked him first.

But, anyway, this story isn’t about bananas. It’s about kumquats. Specifically, a special kind of kumquat essential oil that can only be found at the artisan market clear across town.

Arthur shops there monthly, and he hates the place with a passion. Stuck in the twentieth century, the store only accepts cash and doesn’t even do online sales. But it’s the only place where Arthur can locally buy the ingredients that are crucial to his homemade kitchen cleanser—fuck you, his skin is sensitive—and the all-natural hair rinse that keeps his curls under submission. Which is why, every month, he makes the journey with freshly withdrawn cash and his carefully reviewed inventory list, feeling kinship with prehistoric man that no doubt had to go to similar lengths for their daily necessities.

The subway is, strictly speaking, not his favorite mode of transportation. But homemade citrus cleansers aren’t cheap on a student’s non-existent salary, and needs must. But Arthur is far from thrilled when he walks onto the full, standing room only car.

It’s the sort of crowded conditions that Arthur hates; he’s no fan of bodies pressed against his own except under carefully vetted circumstances. Fortunately, space opens up as he moves towards the back. The packed bodies give way to a semicircle of less-stagnant air and actual elbow room. And at the center of it stands a sinfully hot dude around his own age.

He looks exactly like the kind of man that should be avoided by a studious, disciplined person like Arthur. And yet, he can’t help but drag his eyes up, down, and all around in a quick scan. Jeans looking soft and worn cling to the man’s hips with loving dedication, and a white tee shirt stretches across his bulky chest and shoulders in a way that puts naughty-wrong thoughts in Arthur’s head. His gaze traces the line of one well-muscled, copiously-inked arm that Hot Dude has raised above his head, bracing himself against the ceiling because holding onto one of the grab bars would obviously be too pedestrian for a scoundrel like this.

Arthur’s appreciative survey culminates on the lush mouth that’s nearly hidden by a half-assed beard that coordinates perfectly with the cowlicks spiking out from the back of Hot Dude’s head.

So beautiful.

And then, of course, there’s the peacock.

It’s a magnificent bird, with a gleaming blue body and a jaunty crest on the top of its head. But what naturally draws Arthur’s attention is the sweeping cascade of lacy feathers that make up the peacock’s train; even in this piss poor lighting, those feathers shine like precious gems.

A (younger, more adventurous) part of Arthur wants to go over and run his fingers over those satiny feathers. But the primary (grown up, most likely to succeed) side of him thinks about avian flu and the various hazards of bird shit.

The bird is a spectacle for sure, with its iconic plumage on full display thanks to the fact that it’s perched on some kind of custom-made, rolling stand that elevates the peacock to eye level. But if Arthur is honest with himself, it’s the bird’s owner that holds his attention.

This sort of overly-physical meathead is exactly Arthur’s type, unfortunately, and on a different day he might have done something about that. An exquisite body counts for a lot in Arthur’s book, usually enough to excuse an obvious eccentricity or two. But the bird is just… no. Not going there. The last time he hooked up with a guy that professed to “love animals” he ended up punching his date in the face before the second round of drinks. Drinks he had paid for.

So, no, thank you.

The other passengers are clearly giving the guy and his peacock a wide berth, so that even in this crowded space the bench right next to the bird’s perch remains empty. And there’s an abashed tension on Hot Dude’s face that makes Arthur wonder what sort of dramatics occurred before he arrived.

Whatever. Arthur isn’t going to blink at this admittedly odd tableau, not if it means spending the long ride standing between two sweat-smelling gym rats and the girl taking endless selfies.

He settles onto the empty seat without giving the bird another thought and immediately pulls out his phone. He’s got seven hundred good words going on a new _Stargate_ fic, and he hopes to keep the momentum going while the ideas are fresh.

The doors swish shut and the train gets moving. Soon the atmosphere has that oppressive silence that comes from too many people trying to create the illusion of privacy while listening to everyone around them breathe.

Arthur can feel Hot Dude staring at him, but he refuses to give in to the compulsion to look up. He’s a man on a kumquat mission, after all, and he’s not interested in distractions. And this fic isn’t going to write itself. But the weight of Hot Dude’s gaze gets heavier as the minutes tick away. On top of that, the peacock keeps brushing its tail against his leg in a way that’s increasingly difficult to ignore.

He finally looks up at Hot Dude, mentally approving of how the other man doesn’t flinch from direct eye contact. “Don’t let that thing shit on my shoes.”

Hot Dude simpers at him with that ridiculous mouth. “On my life, never.”

And, _fuck_ , he’s British. His voice is a purring tenor that slides right down Arthur’s back and straight into three of his top five erogenous zones. Which is just not acceptable, not at all.

He gives Hot Dude a look to convey how very unimpressed he is by the man’s overall brand of sexy. “I mean it. These shoes cost more than your soul.”

Hot Dude greets that warning with a grave nod belied by the twinkle in his jade eyes. “I solemnly vow to throw myself between you and any bird droppings that might go your way.”

“Hmmph.” Not a creative rejoinder, maybe, but he’s pretty sure it carries a wealth of adulthoodness. He goes back to his writing and assumes Indifferent Pose #4, the one that projects mild annoyance and studious preoccupation. It’s currently his favorite and usually works wonders in situations like this, but something must be off because…

“I’m Eames.”

Arthur looks up to see Hot Dude watching him with open fascination. “Is that some kind of condition?”

The guy blinks, confused. “No, no… My name is Eames.”

Arthur can’t tell if that’s a fake name for sleazy hookups or a British thing, so he opts for a simple reply. “Hmmph.” This time he only manages to write half of a nonsensical sentence before he’s interrupted again.

“And you are?”

Without lifting his head, he peeks at the upraised arm, the way this so-called Eames’s muscles tense and bulge as he steadies himself against the motions of the subway. Arthur takes a calming breath. “Busy.”

“So I see. What are you writing?”

“A manifesto on animal rights within metropolitan areas.”

“Really?” Eames says with interest. “Because I’ve always had strong opinions about people who keep chinchillas for pets.”

Had he been joking, Arthur might have been able to resist. But the far too sincere way that statement is uttered has Arthur looking up with narrowed, contemplative eyes. “Have you.”

Eames nods as if he’s been waiting his entire life to share his views on South American rodents. “Seems unfair to the dog population, don’t you think?”

Arthur tries—actually tries—to put that into some kind of manageable context, but… “That doesn’t make any kind of sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eames looks almost disappointed by Arthur’s lack of profundity on exotic pets, sparking an uncomfortable pang in Arthur’s belly. “Hmm. Well, something to consider.”

“Right.” Not liking the thrum of guilt he’s feeling, Arthur turns his attention back to his phone, the conversation falling to an abrupt end. He types in silence, and it’s all shit that he’ll have to delete later because his head isn’t in the game. Instead, he’s replaying the exchange in his mind, thinking of all the different replies he might have said instead of coming off like an ass.

They continue to ride in silence until the guilt wears him down. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

Eames turns to him with instant delight. “Will you? That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Now, if I can make suggestions as to whe—”

“Why do you have a peacock?”

Eames winces in a comical way that Arthur absolutely does not find cute. “Ah, that. Yes. Well, funny story—”

“You stole it, didn’t you?”

“I may have done. But, really, you’re skipping all the best parts.”

Arthur refuses to smile. Polite conversation is one thing, but he _will not_ be charmed. “Is this safe? I mean, do you even know what you’re doing with a huge bird like that?”

Eames _tsks_ at him. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent cock handler, no matter the size.”

Arthur gives a reflexive snort that may or may not embarrass him later when he looks back on this moment. “I suppose you think that’s smooth.” He means it to be a verbal stop sign, and Arthur has it on good authority that his skills in shutting someone down are top notch. But, if anything, Eames’s very obvious delight grows brighter.

“If you prefer it rough, darling, you need only say.”

“I think maybe I’ll skip the sexual harassment and go back to ignoring you.”

“That’s very unkind of you.” Eames gives him a pout that’s… rather unfortunately effective.

Arthur is saved from having to respond intelligently when the peacock, which had been quietly just being a peacock all this time, suddenly begins to shuffle about on its stand. With no small amount of production—twitching wings and ruffled feathers—the bird manages to turn itself around on its stand so that it’s facing Arthur. It tilts its head to the side, stretching its long neck out in order to stare him down. He instinctively presses back against his seat. “What’s it doing?”

“Um. I’m must confess, love, I’m not really a peacock expert, despite appearances. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure it’s—”

The peacock leans towards Arthur’s face and _screams._ Repeatedly.

“Jesus Christ.”

Eames looks around, embarrassed to find a horde of glaring eyes on them. “Sorry, folks,” he says on a pained little laugh that doesn’t look adorable. Definitely not. “Don’t mind Peabrain, here. Gets a little excited from the train vibrations.” He gives a knowing look to an elderly lady sitting closest to him.

Arthur blinks away the shock of the last thirty seconds. “The bird’s name is Peabrain?”

“Well, technically not, seeing as how it’s not actually mine and all.”

“That’s not really ethical, is it?” Arthur says with a lifted brow. “Stealing a bird and then renaming it.” Shit, that was kind of flirty, he realizes. Eames must realize it, too, because he moves in a little closer.

“You still haven’t given me _your_ name, pet.”

The man is so obvious, so clichéd, that it’s almost shameful to be reeled in by his dubious allure. But Arthur is finding it harder and harder (and _harder_ , incidentally) to make little things like self-respect matter, and he finds himself giving in to the impish rake. “Arthur,” he says in a voice that only slightly implies he’s ripe for the picking.

“Arthur,” Eames drawls in that British way that British boys do when seducing Americans. And, sure enough, Arthur feels his ears heating up.

Eames opens his mouth to say something scandalous, judging by the sparkle in his eyes, when the train comes to a halt. Arthur shakes himself out of their little flirtation cloud to confirm that his stop is still some ways off. Eames’s must be, as well, because he sticks around while all the other passengers flood out of the compartment—many with a sour look tossed over their shoulders as they depart. A few would-be passengers elbow themselves into the car, see Peabrain, and head right back out again.

Soon it’s just him and Eames. And the bird. The train starts moving again.

It’s clearly the opportunity that the peacock has been waiting for because it instantly jumps down from its perch, wings flexing like an old librarian adjusting her cardigan.

“Shit.” Eames makes a grab but is held up by the bird’s stand. Peabrain makes the most of this newfound freedom by stalking about the aisle, long feathery train smearing through the dirt and litter.

Arthur watches with apprehension. Animals on the loose are not his favorite punchline, especially when the animal is staring him down with intent. “You should do something about that,” he tells Eames.

“Right.” Eames steps around the bird stand and inches closer, attempting to be unobtrusive despite his two hundred-plus pounds of (beautiful) muscle. “Come on, birdy-birdy, back over here with you.”

Peabrain ignores him in favor of craning well within what Arthur considers his personal bubble. Scenes from horror movies flash through his mind, and he’s pretty much certain that he’s about to get his eyes pecked out when the situation becomes unfathomably worse.

In a rush of sound like a dozen velvet maracas shaken in front of his face, Arthur’s world is taken over by a spreading sea of green and blue. Feathers are everywhere, blocking out his view of Eames and the rest of the subway car, enclosing him in a vibrating cage of avian aggression.

“I don’t like this,” he says as calmly as possible while cautiously trying to nudge Peabrain out from between his knees. He’s partially successful in that the bird begins to shuffle back and forth, feathers swaying and whooshing about, beady eyes locked on Arthur through it all.

“Hey,” Eames’s head pops in around the edge of Peabrain’s display, “I think she likes you.”

Arthur takes his eyes off of the bird for a few precious seconds in order to scowl at the gorgeous imbecile. “That’s a male bird, you idiot.”

“Oh. Well, some of us don’t mind that sort of thing.”

Arthur fears his eyelids might actually sprain if he glares any harder, but it does earn him a wince from the other man.

“That worked differently in my head,” Eames concedes.

“I bet.”

Another shimmy-shake of feathers cuts off Eames’s reply. Arthur pulls his feet in as much as he can, once again concerned for the sanctity of his shoes.

“But just, you know, out of curiosity—”

“Are you seriously trying to flirt while _your bird_ is coming on to me? Oh, god,” Arthur bemoans, “this is, like, a thing you do, isn’t it? To pick up randos on the subway. _Hey, baby, wanna pet my peacock_ ,” he mocks in a falsetto voice. “Because that’s not creepy, or anything.”

Instead of taking offense, Eames… snickers. Quietly at first, so that Arthur isn’t quite sure if he’s hearing things correctly over Peabrain’s rustling. But, yes, those were definite snicker noises coming from Eames’s direction.

“What?” he snaps, lifting a foot up to Peabrain’s chest in order to hold off another advance. Fuck the shoes. He’s not about to let some slut bird rub one out on him.

“Just… _wingman_.” Punctuated by a giggle-snort that really makes Arthur question his taste in men.

“Please stop.”

Peabrain, displeased with losing Arthur’s attention for so long, takes the moment to shimmy with extra vigor.

“Eames. The bird.”

“Yeah. Lemme just…” Still giggling, Eames crouches down and holds his hand out. He starts to make little cooing noises.

Arthur and the bird stare at him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m trying, aren’t I? More of a dog person, if you must know.”

“It’s not a fucking poodle. Just grab the damn thing.”

“Right,” Eames nods, considering the task before him. “Right,” he says again in a self-fortifying manner before he slowly reaches out.

Before he can make contact, the peacock flicks its head to the side. It stares Eames down for a beat. Two.

And then it charges.

“Holy shit!” Eames goes down in a mini storm of swirling feathers, thrashing wings, and flailing hands. Unearthly shrieks reverberate off the walls—and the peacock makes a lot of noise, too, so the whole episode is quite a ruckus.

Peabrain eventually leaves off once he has established his dominance and struts off to inspect a discarded Starbucks cup on the other side of the subway car. Eames huddles in the bird’s wake, disheveled and glassy-eyed, a bloody scratch high up on his forehead.

“That,” Arthur says, staring on in astonishment, “was awesome. Wait,” He brings up his phone and turns on the video app. “Do it again.”

“What?” Eames screeches. “I’m not doing a thing, you savage. That bird is a bloody menace. Oh my god.” He curls inward, consoling himself.

“Well what did you think was going to happen when you brought a giant bird onto the subway?”

“Not a bird apocalypse!”

Arthur looks around, debates with himself. “I’m not sure this qualifies—”

“ _Oh my god._ Are you being logical right now? Can’t you see I’ve been viciously traumatized?”

Arthur considers the adorable way Eames trembles and feels a visceral tug somewhere around his heart. “Well, you do look a little banged up.”

Eames sniffs. “I can’t even make a proper innuendo at that, I’m so distraught.”

“Do you, uh… you need some help?” He gets up to lean over Eames, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Of course, I do,” Eames says, letting Arthur pull him to his feet and hold him close. “I’m wounded, aren’t I?”

Arthur gently brushes at the crazy mess of hair along Eames’s brow, careful to avoid the scratch. His skin is so warm under Arthur’s fingertips, and he smells so nice. It’s difficult, repressing the urge to take one more step forward and press their bodies together. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he soothes. “Does it hurt?”

Eames gives him a sweet little smile that Arthur feels all the way down to his toes. “No, no, darling. I’ll be alright.”

Arthur smiles back, caught in the affectionate heat of Eames’s gaze. He feels an answering warmth surging in his chest—and, okay, yes, in his pants, too. And maybe it’s stupid, letting himself get wrapped up in some sketchy dude from the subway, even if said dude has the prettiest face and a seriously rocking body, but what’s that saying about diamonds in the rough? And, god, he really does smell so g—

_EeyaaAH! EaYAAH ya YA YAAH!_

They both break out of their lust-induced trance and turn to find Peabrain standing the middle of the subway car, feathers flared, eyes locked on target.

“Uh oh,” Arthur gasps. He has just enough time to pull his phone back out before Eames goes down in another squawking jumble.

 

 

It’s almost midnight by the time Arthur lets himself back into his apartment. And what a day it has been.

After rescuing Eames from Peabrain’s assault, they depart the subway—stopping by a restroom long enough for Eames to tend to his scratches and for Arthur to clean his shoes off.

Then Arthur keeps Eames company while Peabrain—for reasons still not explained—is deposited in the home of Eames’s buddy Yusuf, a guy Arthur has seen around campus but doesn’t get the chance to meet properly considering Yusuf is deeply asleep, or possibly drugged, when they arrive. But who knew breaking and entering with a deadly bird in tow would be such a turn on?

Finally bird-free, they grab a bite to eat at Arthur’s favorite diner—Eames says he has a hankering for fried chicken—and spend the rest of the evening talking about everything from panda habitats to art school. Hours later, Eames insists on walking Arthur home, which is how they happily discover that Eames lives only a few blocks away.

And Arthur ends the night alone because, it turns out, Eames is a gentleman beneath that swagger and bluster. And Arthur never did get his specialty kumquat essential oil. But he doesn’t mind. He’s got a shimmery green feather, twisted into a heart, tucked away in his pocket and a date tomorrow at the dog park.

Neither of them own a dog, but Eames assures him he’s got that part handled.

**Author's Note:**

> So, why peacock fic? Because apparently I've been writing too much angst of late. And because youcantsaymylastname asked for a fic based on this image:
> 
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Party for Peabrain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260035) by [CoffeeWithConsequences](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences), [deinvati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati), [IAmANonnieMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse), [liternee109](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liternee109/pseuds/liternee109), [oceaxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe), [QueenThayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/pseuds/QueenThayet), [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd), [teacuphuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman)




End file.
